


Soothing

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 17:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17430419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: The challenge: Barba gets poison ivy in a very sensitive area and allows Benson (pre-relationship) to apply the cream. I mean, I did make an *effort* toward believability but I'm gonna need you to just roll with it and not overthink ;)





	Soothing

“I’ve missed you _so much_ ,” Benson said, gathering Noah into a hug and kissing his curls. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Noah said as he drew back. He started pulling off his backpack. “But—”

Straightening, Benson finally got a good look at the man lurking in the doorway. “What the _hell hap_ pened to you?” she exclaimed, and Noah looked back as he dropped his heavy pack to the floor.

“I don’t think Uncle Rafa had very much fun,” the boy finished.

Barba scowled at her. “I’m fine. It was fine. It was fun,” he said, and she might’ve laughed if not for the bandages and homemade finger-splint. His mutinous expression was _daring_ her to laugh.

“Seriously, Barba, what—Come inside,” she said, moving forward and reaching for his arm. She saw him tense, and she stopped. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Sorry, Uncle Raf,” Noah said behind her, and Benson watched Barba’s gaze slide to the boy, watched as his expression gentled.

“I told you, Noah, it’s not your fault,” Barba said. “Don’t worry, alright? I’m just going to head home and…get cleaned up.”

“Okay. Thanks for taking me.”

“Anytime,” Barba said, smiling. Benson doubted that Noah could see the strain in the smile, but she could. Barba’s eyes returned to hers. “I have a car waiting,” he added.

“You’re welcome to bring your bag inside and stay for dinner. I’ll give you a ride later. Seriously, what happened to your hands?”

“Another time,” Barba said, backing into the hallway. “See you later, Noah.”

“Bye,” Noah said, dragging his backpack toward the living room.

Barba met Benson’s eyes for a moment. “Later, Liv,” he said, and then he was gone. She resisted the urge to follow him into the hallway, demanding an explanation, and instead pushed the door closed. She turned to look after her son.

“Noah, what did you and Uncle Rafa do last night?” She’d known that camping was far outside Barba’s comfort zone, which was why she’d been surprised by how easily he’d agreed when Noah asked him, rather than her, to accompany him. She knew that most of the other kids would be there with their fathers—and an uncle, a grandfather, and one older brother—so she couldn’t fault Noah for wanting to fit in even if she did bristle at the implied misogyny. She had been caught off guard when he’d asked Barba, though, and when Barba had quickly—almost eagerly, it had seemed—consented.

“All sorts of stuff!” Noah exclaimed, plopping himself onto the couch. “We put up a tent, and we played football, and we...made s’mores and hot dogs, and...um…” His forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember the events of the previous day and night. “We told scary stories and Uncle Raf’s was the _best_ , Mom. We went fishing but I didn’t catch anything and that’s okay ‘cause I didn’t wanna hurt the fish. And hiking, and…”

“Sounds like you had a good time,” she said, settling onto the sofa beside him.

“It was so much fun!”

She couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, but she was worried about Barba. “I’m so glad, honey. But...tell me what happened to Rafael.”

“Oh,” Noah said, his smile faltering. “Wellll...lots of stuff.”

She tried to temper her unease; she didn’t want to jump to conclusions and assume the worst, but part of her was already sorry she hadn’t forced Barba to stay and explain the bandages. “Start at the beginning.” She paused. “Did he break a finger?”

Noah shook his head. “Mr. Jim said it was just _jammed_. Uncle Raf couldn’t bend it and they had to _pull on it_ and Mr. Riley made a joke about pulling on fingers but I didn’t get it and Uncle Rafa didn’t laugh either. But maybe that’s ‘cause I think it hurt pretty bad. It got real purple. Mr. Jim said he was impressed Uncle Raf didn’t say any bad words.”

“How did his finger get jammed?” she asked, her heart already going out to poor Barba. She didn’t want to tell Noah that, contrary to what Jim and Riley might believe, pulling on a jammed finger was _not_ a responsible course of action. She could only hope they hadn’t caused further damage.

“Well, we were putting up our tent but Uncle Rafa didn’t know how, so he was reading the instructions. Some dads asked if he wanted help but he said no, we could figure it out. It was taking us a long time, though, so they started playing football. He asked if I wanted to go play but I said no, I wanted to help. I never knew how to put up a tent before, Mom! You gotta slide the stick things through—oh,” he said, realizing without prodding that he’d gotten off-topic. “Anyway we were reading and Mr. Riley yelled ‘ _heads up_ ’ and threw the football to us but Uncle Rafa was afraid it was gonna hit me in the face so he tried to catch it with his wrong hand.” Noah grimaced and shook his head. “ _Big_ mistake,” he added, and she laughed in spite of herself.

“So...his fingers are splinted because of a football…?”

“Mommy, it hit _real hard_ ,” Noah insisted, miming slamming one hand into the fingertips of his other. “Mr. Riley said sorry he threw too hard. Uncle Raf said it was fine but it really wasn’t ‘cause he couldn’t bend his middle finger.”

“That must’ve hurt.” She hesitated, afraid to ask the next question: “Did they laugh at him?” She tried to keep her tone light so that Noah wouldn’t think it was too bad if they had.

He shook his head, though, curls bouncing. “Only when he said about skipping gym class when he was in school. He told me I’m not allowed to do that, though. But I like gym class!”

“I know,” she said, ruffling his hair and smiling. “So what happened next?”

“After they pulled his finger then Mr. Jim taped a bag of ice around it and we finished putting up our tent and then they asked me if I wanted to play football even though it would’ve been the wrong number but I didn’t want Uncle Rafa to feel bad so I said I didn’t want to play but he said he would if I did so we did but first he let Mr. Jim tape his two fingers together with a popsicle stick.”

“And you played football?” She wished she could’ve seen Barba running around with them. At least she knew he’d gone in jeans rather than a suit and tie.

“Uncle Raf got knocked down once even though it was s’posed to be touch football but he also got a touchdown ‘cause he can run real fast.”

“Can he?”

“Yup. He said the little guys had to be fast where he grew up. They laughed but...he’s not little anymore. Guess he just remembered how. And anyway we won.” He paused, thinking.

“How’d he get the bandages?” she prompted.

“Oh, yeah. We had to make pointy sticks to cook the hot dogs and marshmallows. But first we had to cut the little branches off. I found our sticks but they had a lot of branches. I broke some off but he wouldn’t let me use the knife ‘cause it was too big.”

She winced, imagining what was coming. “He cut himself?”

“He couldn’t hold the stick real well ‘cause his fingers was taped together. And then he slipped and the knife went _whoosh_ ,” he said, sliding his hand through the air and slamming it into his left palm. “He did say a bad word but I didn’t laugh because it was bleeding a lot. I didn’t like it. I got scared but he promised it wasn’t as bad as it looked. And Mr. Jim said it didn’t need stitches.”

_Mr. Jim is not a fucking doctor_ , she thought, but she kept the words to herself. She might rethink future trips with him as a chaperone, even though Noah seemed—thankfully—fine. Barba appeared to have borne the brunt of the trauma.

“So they cleaned it up and put this gooey stuff on it and wrapped white stuff all around it ‘cause it was too big for a band-aid.”

“So...he only cut his left hand? Where his jammed finger is?”

“Yeahhh,” Noah said, and now she could see hesitance—and, she thought, guilt—in his face. She waited, giving him time to continue, but he didn’t.

“What happened to his other hand?”

“It was an accident.”

“It sounds like they were all accidents, honey. What happened?”

“I dropped Eddie,” he said quietly, looking at his lap.

She hesitated. “You dropped...I thought I told you to leave the elephant home.”

“Yeah.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Okay, it’s alright, but how did you dropping Eddie hurt Rafael’s hand?”

Noah wrinkled his nose and bent forward, dragging the backpack against his legs. He reached inside and pulled out the toy. His lower lip trembled as he looked at his favorite stuffed animal. One of Eddie’s back legs was black, charred, although there was a white bandage wrapped around the bottom of the burned appendage.

“I dropped him in the fire,” he said, and she could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, honey, well it looks like someone fixed him up at least.”

“He got a bandage like Uncle Rafa’s,” he said, his face still on the verge of crumpling. She pulled him into a one-armed hug, kissing the top of his head.

“Uncle Rafa saved Eddie from the fire?” she guessed, wondering how badly Barba’s hand was burned. And if he should have a bandage over it. She supposed that was probably Jim’s doing, too.

“Yeah. His hand got real red. He kept it in ice water for a long time but he said it was fine. They asked if he needed a hospital but he said it wasn’t that bad. Like a sunburn,” he added, and she hoped that hadn’t just been to pacify the kids. “Then they put other gooey stuff on it and wrapped it up but he said it had to be loose to let air get in so when we went in the tent, he redid it himself. I helped a little because of his hurt finger.”

“That was nice of you. All of this happened yesterday?”

“Yeah. And then we ate hot dogs and lots and lots of s’mores—Uncle Raf ate more than me! And we told ghost stories, Mom. Oh no wait first we went fishing. And then after ghost stories we went to sleep, but first Uncle Rafa got poison ivy on his butt.”

“On his— _what_?”

“On his _butt_ ,” the boy giggled.

“No, I mean—how the—How did that happen?”

Noah screwed up his face in thought. “He went to the bathroom in the woods, Mom,” he said, as though the idea might not have occurred to her. “But it was real dark and I think he didn’t see it, and some little leaves got inside his _underwear_ ,” he continued, whispering the last word.

“How...uh…” She wasn’t sure what to ask next—or how. She didn’t want to be thinking about Barba’s ass—or crotch, for God’s sake—and it certainly wasn’t an appropriate topic to discuss with her son.

“We got in our pajamas but then as _soon as we got in our sleeping bags_ he got up and turned on our lamp thingy and he told me to cover my eyes, so I did and then when he said it was okay to open my eyes, he was in his pajamas but I guess he took his underwear off and it took kinda a long time. And I knew it was poison ivy ‘cause Mr. George showed us what the leaves looked like but Uncle Rafa looked it up on his phone, too.”

“Did he touch the leaves with his hands?” she asked, feeling ill.

“Unh-uh, no, after he saw them he put a sock on his hand to hold them and then he put the sock and his underwear in a bag and he said he cleaned himself up before he put his pants back on ‘cause when we read about it on his phone it said that the leaves have _oil_ and he said his sweats were okay because they didn’t touch the leaves and he washed up before he put them back on.” He shrugged as if to say he was willing to take Barba at his word.

“Did he say he had a rash or anything?”

“Nah he said he’d probably have a itchy butt in the morning,” he said, grinning. “I laughed ‘cause it was pretty funny. He thought so, too.”

_I doubt it_ , she thought. _He might’ve laughed but I doubt he thought it was very funny._ “And did he?” she asked.

Noah looked confused.

“Did he have an itchy butt?” she asked, smiling to hide her concern.

Noah laughed. “Yeah. But he said he wasn’t gonna scratch. And he didn’t tell anyone else and I didn’t either ‘cause I didn’t want him to be embarrassed.” He looked down at Eddie and lost his smile. “Momma, when you talk to Uncle Raf will you tell him I’ll be more careful next time?”

“Honey, I know he doesn’t blame you for anything that happened.”

“But I just hope he’ll wanna go again.”

She let out a breath and ran her fingers through his hair. “You had fun with Uncle Rafael, huh?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he answered glumly. “He’s real fun.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Honey, listen, I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna see if you can stay next door with Mrs. Cooper and Austin for a bit, okay? And I’ll go talk to Uncle Rafa and make sure he’s feeling okay.”

“Can I go, too?” he asked hopefully.

“Not right now, but I’ll make sure he knows that you had a good time with him. Wait here while I run next door.”

“Okay.”

“If you need fresh bandages for Eddie’s leg, you can get a box from the bathroom drawer.”

“Uncle Rafa said this one would be good for a real long time as long as I don’t get it wet or dirty.”

“Well, I guess he knows what he’s talking about,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Since he was the attending veterinarian,” she added, and Noah laughed, hugging the elephant carefully to his chest.

 

*       *       *

 

She passed a young man who appeared to be a delivery person leaving Barba’s apartment as she approached. He smiled and nodded, and she returned the gestures. She was worried, though—worried about Barba, and how much pain he might be experiencing. She hadn’t given him any warning that she was stopping over because she assumed he would tell her he was fine.

He looked less than thrilled when he opened the door. He might be annoyed to see her outside his apartment, but it was more than that; she could see the strain in his face, and it did nothing to ease her worries.

“Liv. What’s up?”

“I hear you had a rough night.”

He grimaced, shrugging a shoulder, and turned away from her. “Sorry if Noah was upset. Since you’re here, I assume you interrogated him?”

“I asked a few questions,” she said. He hadn’t exactly invited her inside, but he hadn’t asked her to leave, so she stepped into his apartment and closed the door. He was pacing. She looked toward the kitchen and saw an open bottle of liquor.

He caught the trajectory of her glance and offered a small smile. “Want a drink?”

“No. Thank you.” She also noticed that he’d taken the bandage off his right hand, and she could see the redness as he paced in front of her. He was still wearing the jeans and sweater he’d had on when he dropped off Noah, and his left hand was still wrapped and splinted.

“Is he alright?” he asked.

“Noah? He’s fine. He wanted to come check on you but I left him with the neighbor so _I_ could check on you.”

He laughed. He lifted his hand to scratch at his jaw before wincing and dropping it back to his side. “This isn’t really a good time,” he said. “I’ve got a...situation.”

“Poison ivy?”

He sighed, casting her a sidelong look as he paced.

She looked at his hands. “You need some help putting lotion on?”

He answered with a humorless laugh. “Not going to happen.”

She watched him pace for a few more moments. “I can see how much discomfort you’re—”

“Where did he say I had it, exactly?”

“Your, uh...butt,” she said, trying not to let her embarrassment show. “I realize it’s not ideal, but I’m sure we can handle a little awkwardness to get you feeling better.”

“I think I’ve had about as much humiliation as I can handle for a while.”

“Barba, I think your ego is healthy enough to survive a few knocks. Besides, how bad could it be to have a friend help—”

“We don’t have that kind of friendship.”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together: his agitation, his refusal to meet her eyes, his inability to stand still. “What does that…Where exactly do you have…” He cut his eyes toward her and quickly away. “Jesus, Rafael, you need to go to the _hospital_ if it’s—if you’re—”

“Sure, I’ll take the subway.”

“I’ll drive—You can’t _sit_?” she realized, cursing herself for being so slow to understand just _how_ bad his situation was. “How’d you get to my apartment—and _here_?”

He sighed. “I didn’t want Noah to know how bad it was but…it’s…worse. It’s definitely getting worse. And it’s definitely not just my ass.”

“Raf—”

“Look, I talked to a doctor friend of mine, alright? I have a prescription, a steroid cream, he had it delivered for me. I just, uh…” He held up his hands with a grimace.

“How…extensive…”

“Very.”

“I mean how, um… _sensitive_ an area…” She chewed the inside of her lip for a moment. “How deep, or—or invasive—For crying out loud, are you really going to make me ask this any more directly?”

He stopped and turned to face her. His cheeks were dark but he held her stare. “Very,” he repeated.

“Okay, well…could we maybe, I don’t know, cover up…you know…” She gestured a hand toward his crotch, saw his jaw tighten, and cursed herself again.

“No.”

“No because you don’t want to, or no because it’s—”

“Both.”

She hesitated, raising a hand to rub her middle finger against her forehead.

“For Christ’s sake stop _thinking_ about it,” he said.

“I can’t. You’re obviously in pain.”

“I’ll handle it. Just go home.”

“Handle it? How?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Squirt in the general direction?” she suggested.

He snorted, the ghost of a real smile curving his lips before he grimaced again and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I don’t…” He gave his head a little shake, and she could see the desperation peeking through his bravado. His throat worked as he struggled to swallow. He let out a slow breath and returned his gaze to hers. “Fuck, Liv,” he said softly, and for a few seconds all of his defenses were gone.

“Okay,” she said, stepping toward him automatically, unable to bear the torment in his eyes. “Maybe—maybe a baking soda bath? To take the edge off?” She looked at his hands. “Do you have rubber gloves, or plastic, to keep your hands dry?”

“Sure, yeah, that’s a good idea,” he said, and she could see him piecing together his armor with effort. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

“Raf.”

“This is not your problem. Really, I’ll—”

“You can’t get the steroid stuff on your hands.”

“No. Gloves, like you said.” He offered an almost-convincing smile.

She held up two fingers. “I’m sure they’ll fit over the splint.”

“Look, no offense, Olivia, but I really, _really_ need to get my fucking pants off and I think it’s best you leave before that happens.”

She almost laughed, but seeing the pain in his face tempered any amusement she felt. “Why are you still wearing them? It must be—”

“I had to wait for the prescription and then you showed up.”

She refused to take offense at his accusatory tone. “Fine, there must be someone else who can come help you put the damn cream on. The doctor friend? Your…I don’t know…mother?”

“My _mother_?” he asked, and she did laugh at the abject horror in his expression as he stared at her.

“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up a hand. “Listen. I’m sorry. I can’t stand to see you like this and it’s my fault, at least partly. You didn’t have to take Noah on that camping trip, even if he did ask you. I should’ve given you an out, told him I was going, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the only mother there.”

“You would’ve.”

“Really? Well...still.”

“By no stretch of imagination is this your fault,” he said. “If a grown man can’t manage to cut a piece of wood or take a sh—go to the bathroom in the woods without help then I really think he deserves what he gets.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows and held his hands out to his sides. “ _Look at me_ ,” he said. “One night, less than two days in the woods—I can’t take it anymore, Liv, seriously—”

“My son doesn’t have a scratch on him—”

“I’m taking my clothes off.”

“—and from what I can tell never wants to go anywhere without you again.”

“So help me God.”

“Rafael.”

“He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure he’ll never want—I can’t discuss this right now,” he said, starting abruptly toward the bedroom.

“I can’t leave until I know you’re okay.”

“I don’t care what you do right now,” he said, pushing the door closed behind himself.

 

*       *       *

 

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” There was a long silence from the bedroom. “Are you still here?” he finally asked.

Benson was pacing the living room, listening to him mutter and curse. “Yes,” she answered. “What do you need?”

The silence stretched out on the other side of the door. Finally, barely audible: “ _Fuuuuck_.”

“Let me help you. Don’t keep suffering just because you’re embarrassed.”

“This is not something you should...have to do,” he muttered; she could only hear him because she’d stopped in front of his door.

“I promise you, no one will ever know about this but us.”

The door opened and he stood before her in a bathrobe, held loosely closed by the thumb and middle two fingers of his burned right hand. He looked so miserable that she had to fight the urge to pull him into a comforting hug. “This is...the worst thing I’ve ever felt,” he admitted quietly. “I can’t get a glove over the splint, I can barely use my right hand because...it hurts, and I can’t see…” He released a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Okay,” she said, putting a light hand on his arm. “We’ll do this, Barba, it’s fine. Is it...front and back?” He stared at her. “The rash? Front and back?”

“Yes. Well. Uhh...back and...under...mostly,” he said.

She ignored the dark blooms of color on his cheeks. “Do you want to do this standing or lying down?”

He hesitated. “ _Standing_?” he finally repeated. “How…”

“I thought you might feel, I don’t know, less vulnerable on your feet. If I…” She trailed off, realization dawning. “Yeah, no, I guess not,” she muttered as he shook his head. “Okay, let’s put a towel on the bed, you lay down, and we’ll get this over with.”

He swallowed and fidgeted with the front of his robe. “Alright, then you can...wait here and I’ll...let you know when I’m ready if that’s…”

“Of course. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

He backed away and pushed the door almost closed, and Benson turned to resume pacing while she waited. She didn’t want him to think this was a big deal; it _shouldn’t_ be a big deal, and she hated the nervous flutters in her stomach and the heat threatening to creep out of her shirt collar every time she thought about what was going to happen.

 

*       *       *

 

He was lying face down on his bed, on a towel, and he’d draped his bathrobe over himself from middle back to calves. His heart was slamming in his chest, and it wasn’t all from the pain and itchiness.

Those were bad, though; he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said this was the worst thing he’d felt. The pain was even secondary to the itch. Everything felt hot and swollen, itchy and achy and _raw_ , and he was unable to see the most-seriously affected areas. He cursed his injured hands a hundred times over. All he wanted was to be able to glop cream on his hands and slather it all over between his legs and over his backside until the maddening itch was gone.

But he couldn’t. His hands, in addition to being somewhat incapacitated, _hurt_. He couldn’t even fist them in frustration.

“You can come in,” he said, in spite of the acid burning his gut. He shifted his hips a bit beneath the robe and barely suppressed a groan; the friction against the terrycloth made it worse, because the urge to scratch was overwhelming. His body wanted him to rut against the towel to relieve the itch, and he closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said when he heard her approaching the bed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quietly. He heard her pick up the box of rubber gloves he’d set beside the steroid cream and it occurred to him that he should’ve tried harder—the maddening itch and ache were robbing him of his ability to think of anything else, stealing his finely-honed skill of compartmentalization.

“Maybe you can just help me get the gloves on,” he said, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “At least on my right hand and I’ll just—just—”

“Cause yourself more pain in one place to relieve it in another,” she said quietly. “Barba, you don’t have to take care of everything by yourself. Relax. Focus on breathing.”

“Are you thinking _this is why men would never survive childbirth_?” he asked, and he heard her soft laughter. He wiggled on the towel and winced.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never gone through childbirth.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Liv, I can’t—”

“I’m going to lift the robe, okay?”

He swallowed with effort. “Okay.” He felt her fold the bathrobe up, felt the air caress his overheated skin. He stared at his right hand, tracing the edge of the redness with his eyes.

“Rafael, I’m so sorry, this must feel awful.”

“That bad, huh?” he muttered. His chin was tight against the bedspread.

“I’m going to touch you. I’m going to start high and work my way down.”

“Okay,” he repeated. His heart was still racing and his stomach churning but he’d lost all of his fight. He just wanted relief and it would be idiotic to stop her now. “We’re still going to be friends after this, right?” he asked. It was a pathetic attempt at a joke, he knew, but she laughed anyway.

“I’d say it would take worse than this to get rid of me but I imagine you’re not in the mood to think about _worse_ scenarios.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “God forbid.” The cream felt cold against his skin and he tried to focus on that rather than thinking about what she might be seeing. He couldn’t remember ever feeling more vulnerable. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, but _especially_ her. He hated that she’d been put in this position, hated that he’d probably embarrassed Noah, hated that he couldn’t take care of himself.

But he trusted her. She wouldn’t laugh at his discomfort, or take advantage of his embarrassment. She was the last person he wanted to see him like this but the only person he would trust to do it. He didn’t want to think about what that might say about him or his potential for a happy future.

Even so, the thought—the recognition that this was _Olivia_ , and he could be safer with no one else—actually managed to calm him, and he let out a slow breath against the comforter. She was swabbing gently at his skin. Each touch brought quick relief to that spot, but as she applied the cream to more and more areas of rash, it also served to localize— _worsen_ —the discomfort between his legs in the areas she hadn’t yet reached.

He shifted involuntarily against the towel and hissed in a quick breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m going as quickly as I can but I don’t want to miss any. Rafa, most of these back here aren’t that bad, but it looks like it gets worse…”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t have to be able to see it; he could feel it.

“I’m going to touch lower. Inner thigh,” she said.

“Okay.” Her voice was almost as soothing as the ointment. “For the record, I’m...not a complete idiot,” he said after a few seconds of silence.

“I’m sorry? Why would I ever think that?”

“I mean I didn’t...I might not know much about camping or—or plants, or you know, wilderness stuff but I didn’t do this…”

“You didn’t grab a handful of poison ivy leaves to wipe your ass?” she said, and he laughed in surprise, immediately wincing at the friction. “I know. Noah said you got some leaves in your pants. Sounds like an understandable accident in the dark when your hands probably made things difficult to...navigate.”

He looked at his hands and didn’t answer.

“I need you to spread your legs.”

He closed his eyes but did as instructed.

“I’m going to get on the bed if that’s alright?”

“I guess it’s still better than you kneeling in front of me,” he mumbled, and to his relief she laughed. He’d been studiously avoiding that image in his mind—refusing to contemplate what could’ve made her think _that_ would be a comfortable position for _either_ of them.

“It didn’t occur to me until I...visualized,” she answered. He could hear the embarrassment in her voice, and also the smile. Both comforted him. The bed dipped as she crawled up between his knees. “I’m going to...uh…”

“I don’t need a play by play,” he said. Then, afraid the words sounded ruder than he’d intended, he added, “Thank you. I just—I trust you and just want this over with.”

“Alright, I…” She trailed off. He felt her fingers, gentle, soothing his itch and pain half an inch at a time. She was spreading him open, getting closer and closer to the heart of the matter; he almost laughed at the thought.

“What?” he asked. He couldn’t stand the awkward silence. Maybe if they pretended like they were having a normal conversation, they could gloss over the fact that she was mere inches from giving him a prostate exam.

“I don’t want you to be upset,” she finally said.

“Upset?” he repeated. “I think we’ve passed...You mean upset with _you_?” he realized.

“You asked if our friendship would survive this, and—”

“Jesus, Liv, because you shouldn’t have to do this. Not because...You’re doing what you always do. Helping. Taking care of people. I just hate having you see me like this.”

“I know this is awkward, but you shouldn’t feel embarrassed. There’s a blister here, this might hurt, okay?”

He braced himself. Her touch was gentle, the cream soothing. He let out a breath. “It’s not embarrassment,” he muttered, so quietly he wasn’t sure she would hear him. “I mean it is, obviously this is humiliating, but it’s more than just…” He stopped, afraid his emotional state would lead him to say something he shouldn’t.

“Is this about Noah?” she asked.

_And you_ , he thought.

“You’re not going to give me some line of misogyny bull, are you?” she asked, startling him into a small laugh. “Because I expect better from you.”

“I’m not allowed to question my masculinity on occasion?” he asked. He was half-joking, but he was also treading dangerously close to the source of his wounded pride. And she knew; of course she did.

“No,” she answered. “Look, Barba, the day will come when I will embarrass Noah just by _existing_ , and hell, maybe you will, too. But this is not that day. He doesn’t care if you can catch a football.”

“I can,” he muttered, scowling at his splinted finger. It was bruised, a little swollen, sore. Damning.

“I’m sure you can,” she said, and he smiled at her placating tone. “The point is, it doesn’t matter. What matters to him is that you were willing to spend time with him. He’s worried you won’t want to take him again because he wasn’t careful enough.”

“Shit,” he exhaled. “I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s my point,” she answered. “Perineum.”

“I— _What_?” A moment later he felt her gloved finger swipe over the sensitive spot, and he jerked reflexively, digging his toes into the bed. “Fuck.”

“Sorry.”

He laughed, a nervous sound that did nothing to cover his anxiousness. That touch had caused a decidedly unwelcome flush of heat that had nothing to do with his rash. “Thanks for the warning,” he managed, as her thumb—the touch light, barely-there—spread cream over the curve of one swollen testicle. His right hand was curved into a painful fist, and he straightened his fingers, wincing at the sharp sting as the movement pulled at his burned skin. He was going to have to get some more aloe cream on there, as soon as she was finished between his legs.

“I think you’re going to need to turn over,” she said after a moment, and he could hear the apology in her voice.

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he _could_ answer.

“I can’t see the rest,” she said. “Of the rash, I mean. And it would probably be worse if I just...rubbed my hand around blindly...under your crotch.”

He made a sound, unsure if it was a laugh or a groan. He knew she was trying her best to put him at ease, but he was both surprised and alarmed to learn that the pain and itch were _not_ enough to counteract his body’s response to the gentle touch of her fingers.

“Unless you’d rather get on your hands and knees,” she said. A joke. He did his best to laugh, but it sounded choked. He heard her soft sigh. Felt her hand against his hip, an oddly comforting touch considering his state of undress. “Two minutes at the most,” she told him quietly. “Come on, honey, you can do this. You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t think she was aware of what she’d said; most likely, she’d slipped into mother-mode, thinking of him the same way she would her son. He couldn’t blame her. He’d acted nothing if not childish since her arrival.

He could feel everywhere she’d applied the ointment; the relief was substantial, and made the fiery itch on the remaining affected area even more obvious. He knew where she would be touching, what she would be seeing. It could be worse. He’d be able to keep something of himself covered, and she’d basically seen everything else already.

“Two minutes?” he heard himself say. “Not the most inspiring pillowtalk.”

She laughed. Luckily. “I can take as long as you want me to,” she returned, and he pressed his face into the bedspread, laughing. The fact that they could laugh about this at all was a testament to her. He felt her shift, moving one knee and then the other over his leg until she was kneeling beside him instead of between his thighs. She touched his hip again, this time where the bathrobe covered his skin. “I won’t look. My eyes are closed. Roll over, do what you need.”

He laughed again. “If you ever have reason to want to blackmail me, just give me your demands up front and I’ll be happy to pay, Lieutenant,” he said. He put his elbows on the bed and lifted his head, looking back over his shoulder. She was kneeling beside his thigh, her hands resting palms-up on her own thighs, her eyes closed.

“I know you better than that,” she said. “You’d never give in to blackmail, even if I had pictures.”

He smiled, taking a moment to study her while she couldn’t see him. He tried to imagine anyone else in his life offering to do this for him—and actually being able to convince him to allow it.

He tried to imagine a worse time to tell her he was in love with her. _Probably two minutes from now_ , he thought, and he almost laughed again.

“Besides, you know I’d never have to blackmail you,” she added.

“Are you saying I’m a pushover?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

He chuckled, wincing as he carefully rolled away from her toward the edge of the bed. He tugged the bathrobe over his stomach as he shifted and settled onto his back. The towel was bunched beneath him and he didn’t have a pillow under his head, but it didn’t matter: all of his body’s pains and discomforts had overwhelmed his ability to sort them through.

“No, you’re right, all you have to do is ask,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath his eyelashes. “Or drop hints. Or look like you might ask.”

He watched her laugh before looking down at himself. He slid his right hand under the bathrobe, covering himself against his lower belly with his palm, but the heat was almost immediately unbearable for his hand. He glanced at her face. He’d seen her lose her temper in a heartbeat but here, now, for him, she had nothing but seemingly-infinite patience and compassion.

He used his left hand, instead. The bandage was soft against his flushed skin. He crooked his other arm over his eyes; he couldn’t watch her bending over his crotch. “Okay,” he said, and he heard a rustle as she moved. He felt her move back into position between his spread legs. He could feel the cool air under the edge of the robe, felt her slide it a bit higher so she could see what she was doing. He had no idea how well he had himself covered, and it didn’t matter. What difference did a few inches make, anyway?

“You have some blisters on your…”

“I can’t think of a single word that I want to hear you use to finish that sentence,” he said.

She laughed, but said, “This looks pretty bad, Raf.”

“I can’t imagine it’s a pretty view at the best of times,” he answered. He paused. “Just a small area, though? I can feel where...it seems to be the worst.”

“Yeah. A few blisters where it must’ve been warmest or...where the leaves were stuck…”

He almost choked on his laugh. “You know, I swear I had a dream exactly like this, once. Except you were a nun who regaled me with the dangers of teenage boys touching themselves inappropriately and I woke up with an overwhelming urge to go to confession.”

She rested a palm on his thigh as she laughed. He peeked beneath his arm, because she was never more beautiful than when she laughed. He quickly recovered his eyes when she reached a hand between his legs.

“I think that nun would give me more Hail Marys than you, for this,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know, depends on whether or not she could read my—” He realized what he was saying and broke off abruptly. He cleared his throat.

She paused for a moment. “Probably even then,” she said quietly. Without giving him time to think of a response, she added, “I’m going to touch the worst part. It’s not going to feel great.”

He braced himself as best he could, cleared his throat again, and said, “Okay.”

She was right. It didn’t feel great. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but the itch beneath the touch of her fingers made him grit his teeth, tighten his arm over his eyes, and draw a slow breath through his nose. His splinted fingers were only an inch from where she was prodding, and the urge to push her hand aside and scratch was nearly consuming.

She was being careful, afraid of hurting him any more than necessary. As the cream began to soothe the itch and discomfort, he felt his muscles relaxing in relief. His hips were achy from being so tense, and he concentrated on settling his body more comfortably against the bed.

The relief didn’t last long, though. She brushed a finger along the crease between his balls—he _knew_ this wasn’t a remotely sexual situation, he _knew_ that he had no business responding, but he was helpless to stop his body’s reaction. He felt himself twitch beneath his hand and he pressed himself tighter against his body; he would crush himself against his own pelvic bone if he had to.

But she was still running her fingers over him, around him, under him, into the high recesses of his legs, gently poking and prodding and shifting aside hair and flesh as she searched for areas that needed attention—

He could hear the note of panic in his voice when he spoke. “I need you to stop being so...uh…”

“Thorough?” she suggested. “I’m sorry, but I need to make sure—”

“Gentle. I was going to say gentle. Jesus Christ. I can’t, um…”

“You want me to _hurt_ you?” she asked.

“I can’t—I’m not—” He was growing hard under his hand. If she was observant—and he knew she was—he wouldn’t be able to hide it for long. He knew she wouldn’t blame him for his body’s response, something that she knew couldn’t always be controlled. But he knew he _should_ be blamed, because it wasn’t just the touches that were affecting him. It was the knowledge that the fingers were _hers_. And he deserved to be damned for entertaining any sexual thoughts about her—at any time, but especially now when she had willingly put herself in a horribly awkward position to help him.

“Okay. I’m almost done. Move your fingers just a little bit, there’s one red streak partway up...Last one, I promise.”

He swallowed. “I...can’t…”

“Half an inch,” she said. “I can’t really see but I don’t think it goes any higher.”

He was afraid if he tried to speak, nothing would leave his throat but a strangled sound of distress. He also knew that if he waited, the situation was only going to get worse. He shifted his hand, praying she would finish as quickly as promised.

She brushed a finger along the very bottom of his shaft, and he managed to catch the groan in his chest.

“It’s a natural reaction,” she said quietly, trying to console him, and he knew that she was blushing. Without even seeing her face, he knew that it was as red as his. “I mean, between the relief, and the...the contact—”

“Stop talking. Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”

“I thought it might help—a reminder that it’s me, and not someone—”

“No. Nope. That does _not_ help,” he said, and she fell silent. She applied more cream around his base and pulled her hand back.

“Sorry,” she said after a moment of awkward silence.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he countered.

“I think I got it all,” she said. “Does it feel alright?”

“Much better,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to lower his arm and look her in the face. “Thank you.”

“You should probably wear something loose. Light. Boxers—or even just the robe…” She trailed off.

“Okay.”

“Do you need help?”

“Help?”

“Getting something on?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll wait in the other room.”

“The other room?”

“The living room.”

“Oh,” he answered. “Right.” He’d imagined she would want to make a quick escape. “You can, um...go if you want.”

He felt her shift backward and climb off the bed, heard her taking off her gloves and gathering up the supplies to set them on top of his dresser.

“I’ll be in the other room,” she said. A few seconds later, he heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing.

 

*       *       *

 

She glanced up when he stepped out of the bedroom. He’d slipped on clean shorts and had his bathrobe belted loosely, although he’d struggled a bit to tie the bow. She had just finished pouring two glasses of scotch, and he watched as she looked down to screw the lid back onto the bottle.

“I thought you might want a drink,” she said.

“I think I need a cigarette.”

She laughed, looking up at him, and the sight of her amusement eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He crossed toward her slowly, fighting the impulse to fidget. She held out a glass as he approached.

“Can you hold this?” she asked, and he nodded, carefully taking the scotch. The glass was smooth and cool against his burned skin. He watched her sip her own drink. She had to drive herself home, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

He gestured toward the living room. “Want to sit?”

She nodded, and he turned away, carrying his drink to the sofa. He sat carefully, wincing as the shorts bunched up, and adjusted himself as well as he could. She set her glass on the coffee table and he looked up at her.

“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “I guess so, just leave a quarter on the tank.”

She smiled, and he turned his gaze into his glass to keep himself from watching her walk away. He was still staring into his glass, lost in thought, when she returned a couple of minutes later.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he looked up, noting that her hands weren’t empty. She had antibacterial ointment, a roll of white gauze, paper tape, and aloe cream.

“I’ve been better.”

She sank onto the couch beside him. “You don’t have a fever, do you?”

He managed a smile. “I feel a little warm but I’m pretty sure it’s the heat of, you know, humiliation.”

She sighed. “Raf, I wish I could make this better for you,” she said.

“You did,” he answered. “You are.” When she lifted her gaze to his, he was helpless to look away.

“Are you going to argue if I ask to help with your hands?”

He shook his head. He let her take his scotch and set it beside hers on the table, and when she reached for his left hand, he held it out and turned his body slightly toward her to make it easier.

“I’m going to untape your fingers,” she said. She glanced up at his face. “For future reference, don’t let those guys pull on any part of your body that’s injured.”

He was surprised into a laugh, but he bit back the inappropriate joke that rose to his tongue.

Smiling as she returned her attention to his fingers, she said, “I heard that thought.”

He laughed again. “You always do. And anyway, I had some misgivings but I don’t use the middle finger of my left hand for all that much anyway.” He grinned as she snorted softly. She was carefully removing the tape from his fingers.

“So long as you refuse their attempts to help next time.”

“Next time?”

She glanced up, then back at his hand. “If you decide to go again.”

“I’ll always go if Noah wants me to,” he said, “but I should probably take a babysitter.”

“I hear you did a great job of looking after him. And Eddie.”

“I meant for me.”

Cradling his hand in her palm, she pressed her thumb gently between the second and third knuckles of his bruised middle finger. “Can you bend this?”

He did, carefully. It was stiff and sore, but not unbearably so. That was a good thing, because he was going to have to figure out how to apply another dose of cream by morning, if not sooner. Now that the edge had been taken off, his situation didn’t feel quite so desperate. He didn’t intend to let it get that bad again.

“I could go along, next time,” she said without looking up, watching as he bent and straightened his finger a few times to work out some of the stiffness.

“Instead of me?” He smiled. “Or to babysit me?”

“Protect you from the dangers of the woods. Knives, fires, poisonous plants.”

“Footballs,” they said in unison, and she glanced up again as they both laughed. He hesitated as she started unwrapping the bandage around his palm. “Some of those guys would love having you along.”

She smiled at his hand. “Yeah?”

“Well, all of them, but especially the unmarried ones.”

“Hmm,” she answered. “This doesn’t look as bad as I was afraid it would. It’s a little red. I’m just going to put some ointment on and wrap it back up but make sure you keep an eye on it.”

“Mmhm.”

“We could probably go without them,” she said. “I mean, there’s no reason we’d necessarily have to...wait for someone else…”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “What are we talking about?”

“Camping.”

“Okay. You...want to go camping...without the others?”

“We could. If you wanted.” She was wrapping clean gauze around his hand, covering his cut palm. “You could look after Noah, I could look after you.”

He laughed without much air behind the sound. His stomach was fluttering nervously. “Okay,” he repeated.

She glanced up. “If you want,” she said, shrugging a shoulder. “You can think about it.”

“Noah and I do know how to put up a tent, now.”

She smiled. “We can bring those metal roasting sticks for the hot dogs and marshmallows.”

“I’ll try not to impale myself on one.”

“And only Nerf balls.”

“That sounds reasonably safe, then. And only non-flammable stuffed animals.”

“Of course.” She taped the gauze down and released his left hand, reached for his right. She winced at the sight of the redness. “I told him not to take the elephant, anyway. That’s why he feels bad.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Any more than any of this was your fault.” She squirted aloe cream into his palm. “When he was telling me about everything that happened, all I could think was thank God you were there with him. Doesn’t sound like the other dads were very trustworthy.”

Once again, he didn’t think she realized what she’d said. He watched her gently massaging the cream into his skin with her thumbs. He swallowed, gathering his courage. “It means a lot that you trust me to...take him places,” he finally said.

“There’s no one I trust more,” she answered. “And he loves you.”

“I love him, too,” he murmured, surprised by how emotional he was feeling.

“I know.”

“I…” _love you, too_. The words stuck in his throat, not because he didn’t want to say them—he did, but not like this.

She looked up and met his eyes. “I know,” she repeated with a small smile. “If you’re feeling up to it, maybe we can talk about it next weekend.”

“Sure. Over dinner?” He could reserve a nice table, put on a suit, buy some flowers and fancy wine, hopefully speak in complete and coherent sentences.

“Sounds nice,” she said, as she finished massaging the aloe between his fingers. He was disappointed when she released his hand. “I should get home. I’ll check in tomorrow morning to see how you’re feeling, but promise me you’ll call if you need help with anything—even if you need a ride to the hospital, _anything_ —in the night?”

“Okay.” He watched her push to her feet and head toward the bathroom to wash her hands. When she returned, she started to gather up the supplies. “I’ll take care of that, it’s alright,” he said. “Do you want the rest of your drink?”

“I have to drive. Sorry, I didn’t mean to waste it.”

He smiled. “I’ll drink it,” he said. “I can probably use the help sleeping.”

She touched a hand to his hair and bent down, pressing a kiss to his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she straightened.

“Yeah.” When she started to turn, he blurted out her name: “Liv.”

She stopped, meeting his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“Anytime,” she answered with a smile, and he felt his lips twitch in amusement. “Get some rest, Rafael. Don’t get up, I’ll let myself out.”

He watched her cross to the door. “Have a good night. Feel free to call if Noah needs to talk to me or anything.”

“I might just call to say goodnight,” she said, smiling back at him.

“I’ll call you,” he suggested.

Her smile widened. “Pushover,” she said.

He grinned in response.

 


End file.
